Broken Thoughts
by panini999
Summary: Inspired by a beautiful Sonnet, and my very own boredom. May be a Collection of Oneshots, romantic/hurt/or otherwise. Enjoy.
1. Always the same

**Disclaimer: No ownership at all. **

**I don't know why... but I keep posting the stories I never intended to post. :o... This one was completely done on a whim (in the middle of my studying for a test, actually, while watching the show :P) and I can't say that I'm proud of it. T-T. Reviews are great for me though ^-^ I may or may not make a drabble out of this. **

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**Broken Thoughts **

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She thinks (or dreams, she can't really tell) of being normal.

Sometimes, in her house, at night, on her sofa, she grips her cup of tea or coffee and plays soft music from the radio. And she thinks.

Sometimes, when she goes home, worked from a long day with human remains, she likes to dream—and she can see it.

She can see herself. She can see a modest house with a fence. She can see movement behind open windows, and she can see a door swing out. She can see her parents there, in her little world (she refuses to say _fantasy_), and she can feel the irrational urge to shout or to run or to sprint.

But she doesn't do any of those. She never does. So instead she chooses to simply hold on to the image, and begin to drink in the sight her masochistic brain has offered.

Her mother's brown hair (almost like her own, but lighter somehow) was tied up in a bun, her green eyes (the exact color of hers) warm and inviting and compassionate. Her father's smiling face comes into view next, along with his strong, calloused hand beckoning her to come in, and then she can feel (imagine) a hand nudging her softly on her back and she realizes that she is smaller—younger. Her brother tells her that Dad will be mad if they're late for dinner so he takes her hand and leads her back into the house, into their _home_, and she is hugged and kissed and loved. In her little make-believe world, she is crying.

But she knows it's a lie. And she knows it'll fade away and leave her. Just like her family did.

Thoughts would engulf it. _Her _thoughts. They would chase the dreams away.

And not just any thoughts, scientific thoughts. Observing, analyzing, concluding. She could never get tired of it, because it was her life now.

Because at the end of the day, she'll always be the same person: a forensic anthropologist. At the end of the day, when she's alone and numb and almost (but not quite) crying, abandoned little Temperance Brennan knows that she will never get a second chance at life.

And it's always the same…

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Brennan never does know the following morning what time she went to sleep. She just knows that she sometimes finds herself on the couch, her face sticky and her eyes moist and her radio playing either jazz or melodious rock in the background.

Yawning and cleaning herself up, she even fails to remember what she had cried about. Because facts (that taste and burning at the back of her throat) all conclude to it. And thinking, (crying is completely normal, a trait every human being possessed that could be triggered by anything, she could have hit her knee on the table. Or it could have just been the result of excessive yawning…) she leaves her house—her unfulfilled dreams, her broken thoughts—and heads for work.

Always the same.

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**Author's Note: Opinions? Again, I don't know why I always end up posting the stories that I come up with... spontaneously. Maybe my writing is trying to tell me something 0_o**


	2. Indecision

**Disclaimer: I don't own _anything_. Capice? **

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**Broken Thoughts:**

Indecisions

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He looks at her—standing there, staring at him with a face warped with indecision—and he can't help but think: _I'm such an ass._

Earlier that day, he had felt so confident, so twisted in his own merry world—because his fantasy was coming true. His calling. He was going to sail to the _Caribbean's _for God's _sake. _He was _thrilled. _

And yet he knew something would happen. The saying, "_no one ever got a free lunch,"_ or something like that kept getting in his head when he thought about his new ship. His new adventure. All the while something was nagging him. Telling him that not _everything _could be possibly perfect. This was _reality _for God's sake.

But.

Damn that voice. Damn it to hell.

So he ignores it.

And he stands there, in her office, asking her to take a freaking _sabbatical. _He chooses to be oblivious to common sense, blabbering on about how great it would be and how… how magical and—he knew he took a wrong step when he said the next one—_romantic. _He sees how her pupils dilate, how her bottom lip so slightly trembles, and he knows.

He was going to lose her.

"Just—just think about it. Okay?"

"Sully…"

He can't help it. He begs. "Please?"

He sees her chin droop, her mouth tighten and then try to smile. She nods.

A moment of awkward silence.

"Do you—do you want a hug?"

It's all he can do to keep himself from banging his forehead on a desk.

"No? Okay… just—just asking…"

He sees her—almost—imperceptibly twitch. Then she's in his arms. And breathing in her scent (her Dove soap and shampoo, the Downy detergent on her clean clothes) Sully couldn't believe what he was risking. What he was giving up. He pats her hair and runs his hand through the tangle-free softness.

"Tempy…" He doesn't say it out loud—for fear of ruining this, _their,_ moment. So he sighs it in his mind.

_I am such an ass. _


	3. Peace

**Disclaimer: **Nada. Nut. Nothing.

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**Broken Thoughts:**

Peace

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**Sitting in the Royal Diner, early in the morning, an FBI agent stirs his coffee. He's alone in the eatery, save for a silent and brooding teenager off the edge of the counter, and the busy but drowsy cook at the back of the stove.**

It's unusually quiet and it's peaceful.

It's these moments that make him grateful for life.

It's these moments that make him think back.

But then the door rings open and sweeps closed, and then someone's standing behind him.

He looks over his shoulders, and he finds his partner there, a petulant expression on her face.

"Why didn't you call me?" She asks, and Booth isn't even the slightest bit surprised.

"I—"

"No excuses Booth," She warns, "I already know." And she takes the seat next to him. They're both silent for a moment and neither one of the two make eye contact. She gives her order to the approaching waitress before she even gets near where they're seated.

"You should have called."

He laughs in the direction of his coffee. "Bones, I—"

"I could help." She insists, in an eager state of mind, "I've gotten really good at human communication. Angela said so." Her tea arrives and she takes a sip and continues before he gets one word in. "And you should know, even if you don't tell me now, statistically," She leans in here, like she's sharing some kind of secret, "the average length of a human male to keep silent is extremely varied by the mental capability to do so—so factoring in the case of where you're anxiety is coming from, I would expect the need to… to find expression for yourself extremely unpleasant if the opportunity to do so shows itself too soon before the denial could completely shut out your need to release stress. And —"

"I didn't call you because I already went." He's smirking. Because she always finds a way to make him smile whenever she gets into her statistics. "I already stopped by the cemetery." He drinks in her expression.

But she doesn't blink. She wouldn't dream of it. "Oh."

Slowly, a little reluctant in accepting the answer, she takes a more comfortable position on the stool beside him.

The silence isn't awkward, and it isn't tense. They're both unusually quiet, and it's peaceful.

She worries about him. And he enjoys it. It's almost… relieving. To know that one person in this world wants you to be happy. To be okay. Her attempts at empathy really aren't just _attempts_. Not for him.

Except.

"You're okay, then?"

He knows who he is and who he was. What he did and what he's doing. She can't change that. No matter how much he wants her to be able to.

"Booth?" Uncertain, she places her tea down. "Did you make peace like you said you were going to?"

So, since he clearly can't do anything about it, he answers her with a smile and stirs his coffee—he laughs at the tightening and confusion of her eyes, and for a fourth of a second, he forgets who he is. Who he was.

And for a fourth of a second, he's happy.

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**A/N:** A very old document I found lying around with cobwebs and moth balls, so sorry about the blast to the past. Other chapters will most likely be more up-to-date


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